


Swordwork

by helens78



Category: Highlander RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-27
Updated: 2006-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:06:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Vin Diesel isn't a celebrity but Adrian Paul is, Vincent meets Adrian at a Highlander convention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swordwork

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zillah975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah975/gifts).



Most of the women here take three looks at the big guy with the shaved head, trying to figure out if he was a villain in an episode somewhere. He doesn't ring any bells, though, and they leave him alone as soon as they realize he's a conventioner and not a guest. He's friendly enough, smiles at people, keeps his arm wrapped around his lady friend like he wants to keep her safe, but there's something about that chemistry -- there's nothing anyone can put a finger on, but all the same, it looks more like they're friends than like he's one of the boyfriends who got suckered into coming here.

There aren't a lot of men at these places. Adrian got used to that two or three cons down the line. Seeing someone like the guy in the fourth row is a surprise, and his eyes keep going back to him. _You're into swords_, he decides, and when the auction comes up he keeps looking over, wanting confirmation.

He gets it when the MacLeod sword's on the block. The guy puts his hand up, starts the bidding at $150. Like always, the bids skyrocket -- soon enough the sword's going for $800 as Adrian plays with it, twists his body to counter the sword's weight as he makes it flash through the air. There's no reason not to show off -- it drives the bidding up and makes those cameras flash like crazy -- and he plants the tip of the sword in the stage, leans on it as the bidding slows down.

"A thousand."

The voice is deep, like gravel, and Adrian's attention snaps right back to the guy in row 4. A thousand's not much in a crowd like this, but he's got a feeling the guy's not going to stop there.

Two thousand. Twenty-five hundred. One by one the bidders drop out, until it's a sweet-looking girl in a blue sweater, someone who's won three auctions so far today, and that guy in row 4. She glances over her shoulder to look at him, and Adrian can just barely make out his grin.

_Into swords_, Adrian thinks, but there's a shiver that runs up his spine all the same.

The bidding ends at $3800, and like all the items that can be autographed, the sword gets set aside so Adrian can take a minute and personalize it when he finds out what the guy wants him to write.

* * *

They get fifteen minutes before the real autograph queue gets started; all the auction winners are trickling past, grinning like crazy, name tags spelling out names for people when the fans are too nervous to spell them out themselves. It's convenient, definitely, and Adrian likes the variety -- although occasionally he has to crack a joke at women whose nicknames evidence a certain preference for a large-nosed ancient rather than the title character of the show. He can't help himself, really, and anyway, Peter does the same thing from the other end. _Now, see, this isn't fair. If Methos had a last name, I could have a whole bunch of people running around with it, too. What is it, fourteen MacLeods so far? Damn, that's a lot of Scots._

The last person in is the guy from row 4, though. Christ, he's bigger in person than he looked from the floor, and from the way the girls behind him were craning their necks trying to see, Adrian was pretty sure he was tall.

He's got the sword in a giant cardboard box, and Adrian comes out from behind the table, over to the side of the room, so he'll have room to autograph the thing.

"You're a sword collector?" he asks, as they get the packing materials pulled aside.

"Some of that. I'm a fan of the show," says the guy. Adrian glances at his name tag: _Vincent._

"Is this your first convention?" Adrian asks. _I'd have noticed you before._

"Mmhm. Never had the nerve to come before, but this time--" He grins, and it's surprisingly disarming. Adrian pauses with his hand on the Sharpie, cap half-off. "Anyway. 'Vin', please?"

"Sure." Adrian licks his lips and signs across the flat of the blade, standing up straight as he finishes. Tall, but not as tall as he looked at first; not more than a couple inches taller than Adrian is. _Sue me, I was curious._ "Do you have other swords from the show?"

Vincent looks around and lowers his voice even further. It rumbles out of him like one of those low thunderclaps, the kind you don't even realize is thunder until it crashes near the end. "Several of them. Want to see them in person?"

Adrian gets offers like this all the time. Mostly joking, mostly from women who are already wearing wedding rings.

Vincent's got no rings on, and he looks deadly serious about the offer. He's got a white business card in hand, and Adrian slips it into his pocket.

He doesn't say anything as he heads back to the autograph table.

* * *

The card's got a name, a number, and an email address. The number's got an LA area code, which makes the guy relatively local. When the convention's over and Adrian's slept off the jet lag, he picks up the phone.

"Vin."

"Hi." _Now what?_ Adrian wonders. This never gets any easier.

"Hmm, that voice sounds familiar. I don't _think_ I bid on the phone call..."

Adrian chuckles. "No. This you get for free."

"Because I had the balls to ask."

"More or less."

"I'm glad I did, then. I came close to just asking for the autograph and leaving it at that."

_And how disappointing would that have been,_ Adrian wonders. None of this nervous, anticipatory feeling in the pit of his stomach; none of the curiosity that kept him awake on the plane flight home. "I've got a phone number and an email but no street address. You're going to have to cough one up if you want me to see your sword collection."

Vincent chuckles. "You got a pen?"

* * *

Adrian spots the car first -- red convertible out front -- and Vincent second. The house number's a distant third. Vincent's in his doorway, leaning up against the frame, mug in his hand. Late afternoon's not really coffee hour, but Adrian isn't going to criticize.

"Hi," Vincent says. "Come in."

Adrian does.

He should notice things like carpeting, whether there's hardwood or Persian rugs or bloody shag carpet under his feet. He should notice furniture, wall decorations, whether it takes a right turn or a left to get into the bedroom. He _does_ notice that he's going up the stairs, but whether those stairs are open-modern or traditional with a runner down them or something in between, the detail slips his mind.

He notices the sheets when he's on them. Violet so dark they're nearly black, thread count so high it's like slipping into sin. They feel good against his back first, then his legs, and then under his hands and knees while Vincent takes him hard, fast, and nervous, with rough uneven breathing that makes Adrian think _the next time'll be better_.

It doesn't take long to be ready for a next time, and the next time is definitely better; all hands and mouths, bodies twisted across the sheets, Adrian's nails dug hard into Vin's hip as he groans his own orgasm and feels his mouth fill with Vincent's come.

Vincent's still nervous afterwards, maybe even more nervous than he was when they got started. He makes coffee and looks at Adrian as if he isn't really there. And Adrian realizes how one-sided this is.

He could walk away. He hasn't given Vincent his phone number or his email address. This time next year he could be on stage again, and Vincent could be the anonymous guy in row 4. It's cliché precisely because it happens all the time.

Adrian looks at Vincent and takes another sip of coffee.

"I haven't seen your swords."

_-end-_


End file.
